


Merry Christmas Derek Hale

by aprettysmalldose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Sappy, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 03:19:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2797676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aprettysmalldose/pseuds/aprettysmalldose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>3B AU in which Jackson comes back in 3A to save (part of the day) and nobody dies, Darach is deads and Alpha pack (minus Kali and Ennis they dead too) has slunk off into the night. </p><p>Basically 3A was about 459037454 times LESS traumatizing, and events have not forged Scott into true alpha yet.  Cora does not exist in this verse (sorry to everyone who likes her but mostly i don’t and ok i will not go into my Cora ranting here) Lydia has discovered her banshee heritage.  </p><p>This fic features gentle!Derek and pining!Derek and romantically oblivious!Sterek.  </p><p>I GIVE YOU</p><p>Teen Wolf Secret Santa</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merry Christmas Derek Hale

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you glorious Madwench and beauteous Joshfish for your incomparable betas, as always.
> 
> Sorry this is such a rough posting, but if I don't do it now in the 5 mins I'm thinking of it, it will never get posted and it will sit in google docs for yet, ANOTHER YEAR

 

 

Teen Wolf Secret Santa

 

*********

 

"This is the stupidest fucking idea," Jackson grumbles. Derek glares at him.

 

"Shut up, Jackson," Stiles says absently, eyes glued to Scott's TV screen, where an old Mets game may or may not be bringing him to tears of loss and suffering.

 

“Still Stiles?” Allison smiles as she flops down on the couch next to Stiles.

 

He turns wide, guileless eyes upon her. “Always,” He whispers throbbingly.  

 

“Oh my - for the - somebody make them stop, nutjob potterheads,” Isaac grumbles as Erica unwinds him from his scarf, giggling hysterically as her unwrap job reveals yet another scarf underneath.

 

"Okay," Lydia says briskly, twisting her hand one last time through the pile of folded papers in the bowl, "time to nut up or shut up."  She sets it down on Mrs. McCall's coffee table.

 

Boyd snorts, then says, "Lydia Martin watched Zombieland?"

 

"Stiles," Scott answers with the obvious as he comes in with a final bag of chips.  "This is the last one guys, the McCall grocery budget does not exist to feed your werewolf butts."

 

He drops it on the table, next to the bowl of names. There is a moment, pregnant with inaction, before almost everyone leaps on it at once. However, before the massacre can truly begin, they all freeze as Lydia says, brokenly, “I sense...death,” her gaze far away and vacant.

 

Derek is the only one listening suspiciously to her heartbeat, calm and steady, (note to self, give pack more training), and is unsurprised when she swoops in and snatches the bag for herself.

 

After a moment, Stiles says faintly, “I don’t know why any of us are even surprised right now.”

 

Derek smirks.

 

The pack observes a moment of silence for the lost bag of chips before they begin the Secret Santa name drawing, Boyd grabbing the bowl off the table and then passing it around.

 

It's fairly quiet as, one by one, they pull a scrap of paper each from the bowl.  Erica gives a soft crow of victory at the name she picks, and Allison hums thoughtfully, but it's Scott who really breaks it by collapsing back onto the couch and whining, "Aw man, this is exactly the person I did not want to get."

 

They all look over at him, Derek included.  Which is why he recognizes his own scrap of paper in Scott's hand, corners meticulously folded in, the careful scrawl of his writing bleeding through the back of the paper in the way that's always bothered him. Jackson snickers and Erica contorts herself to try and peek but Isaac elbows her in the ribs, making her attempt unsuccessful.  

 

Derek schools his face into expressionlessness and hopes that that's normal enough that no one will pick up on it.

 

He feels--well he feels a bit like his heart has dropped though his chest.  He knew he and Scott weren't close, were probably never going to be close but he'd thought that at least--well it doesn't matter what he thought.

 

Derek looks down at the name he's drawn to distract himself.

 

Jackson.

 

He manfully quells the urge to drop his head down onto the cool glass of the coffee table.

 

What the fuck do you get the kid who has everything?

 

"Dude, dude," Stiles says urgently and Derek looks back up again. It looks like Stiles has managed to wrest a glimpse at Derek's name from Scott. Derek glowers at everything.

 

"Dude, trade with me, I'll give you the name I picked, it's gonna be awesome, you'll see!"

 

Derek watches with jaw clenched as Scott trades him over without a second thought.  

 

"It doesn't matter who you have Stiles, anyone, literally anyone is better than who I pulled." Scott's eyes flicker in surprise as he reads the name he got from Stiles.  "Dude," he says softly in reaction to it.  

 

Stiles flaps a hand at him.  "S'not a big deal," he murmurs, eyes racking over the scrap of paper avidly like it holds more information than just Derek's name.

 

Derek tells himself to get over it, and turns his attention back to Jackson's name in his hand.  

 

This is going to be a tough nut to crack.

 

...

 

Christmas pun not intended.

  


++++++++++

 

It takes him a week of brainstorming to come up with a plan of action, another week after that to convince himself it's actually a good idea, and another week after that to track down what he needs.  He's cutting it pretty damn close.  

 

He actually impresses himself with his sleuthing skills, and sort of flatters himself that Stiles might even be a little bit proud.  He knows Jackson's birth parents are a touchy subject, but he also knows that not knowing what they looked like plagues Jackson; there isn't a one among the pack now who doesn't know that.

 

As someone who hasn’t a family photo or portrait left to his name, Derek knows what a bitch that is. So he breaks it down, thinks about it logically.  He knows Jackson's parents died in a car crash.  With no other family other than their infant son, most of their belongings would have been sold.  But it wasn't a closed adoption, from what Derek learns in his midnight perusal of Beacon Hills records. The Whittemores knew who Jackson's parents were.  

 

Derek is certain that the Whittemores have kept certain pieces of Jackson's brief, previous life kept safe somewhere, probably waiting until an older age to bequeath them to him; 21 or maybe 25.  Family heirlooms, correspondence, and hopefully, pictures.

 

There's a few long-term storage options in Beacon Hills, but only one or two that will have satisfied the Whittemores exacting standards.  From there, Derek just uses his nose.  Sealed in an airtight container for however many years, Derek recognizes the smell of the two people who made Jackson, and even hints of Jackson himself (there must be baby memorabilia in here as well) in one of the first units he pries into. Well, okay. It’s unit B on floor 3 of 3. It’s a good thing the night guard here is firmly in the deaf side of old and deaf.

 

It takes a few boxes, but he finds what he's looking for, knows it as soon as he sees it.  A candid family portrait: a man, a woman, and a baby, sitting on a porch swing together, set in a simple silver frame. The woman holds the baby (baby Jackson - weird), beaming at the camera and the man has his arm around her shoulders, leaning forward to look at the bundle in her arm. Jackson, predictably, is making a scrunched up unhappy baby face, which is (naturally) still adorable.  

 

Derek covers his tracks and absconds into the night with his prize, squashing down the feeling that this could turn out to be one of the worst ideas he's ever had, by reminding himself it could also turn out to be one of the best.

 

+++++++++++

 

They gather two nights before Christmas Eve at the McCall residence. Derek brings with him a bottle of sparkling wine for Mrs. McCall and politely thanks her for having them. Everyone arrives more or less at the same time, and one by one they go into the secrecy of the guest room to hand over their gifts to Mrs. McCall, who is really being a great sport about the whole thing.

 

They all shuffle around in the living room, and eye up the three armchairs and the sofa.

 

After a few minutes of brief and furious negotiations that makes Europe seem simple and uncomplex by comparison, the pack is situated and (mostly) comfortable.  

 

Boyd gives everyone the stink eye and stomps over to stand behind the couch, but Derek gets up to go into the kitchen to pour glass of wine for Mrs. McCall. She rolls her eyes at him, but gives him almost a fond look, as back in the living room Boyd settles with a contented sigh (to the envy of everyone else) into the first best armchair.  

 

Derek accepts his own glass wine from Mrs. McCall, and walks back into the living room to stand behind where Erica’s sitting on the couch. After a minute of looking at each other sideways, Scott calls out, “I think we’re ready Mom.”

 

She brings out the gifts in a repurposed laundry basket and hands them out.

 

There’s another awkward moment where they just stare at each other, and carefully avoid looking at Derek. After a moment he says, calmly with eyebrows raised, “Alpha goes last.” Now they’re staring at each other in surprise. Derek grins.

 

Stiles rolls his eyes theatrically, and says, “Fine, I’ll go first.” He makes a big production out of sniffing his package, shaking it and fondling it all over in a bid to discover its secrets.

 

Of course Stiles is one of those.

 

Eventually Stiles rips into it to find a handmade scarf of beacon hills red (Derek suspects Isaac) and Stiles (in typical Stiles fashion) falls in complete love with it, stroking it where he's coiled it around his neck and, well, purring, for lack of a better term.  Derek rolls his eyes but Stiles refuses to be anything other than smug.

 

Allison goes next, and opens her gift, which contains an exquisite athame dagger, gleaming and deadly.  Derek pegs Jackson for that piece of pricey practicality. He makes a note to tell that to Stiles later. Stiles appreciates well-time alliteration.

 

Boyd is (surprisingly to Derek) thrilled to unwrap a customized beanie in some bizarre pattern with his full name stitched around the rim.  He slides it on immediately and beams at the room.  “Cashmere,” he says succinctly. Derek cautiously decides that came from Allison, he’s picking up smug from her, though he can’t see or smell it. Go Alpha powers? He doesn't know how she knew exactly what Boyd wanted, but there’s no denying he’s thrilled with it.

 

Lydia goes next and slices into her paper with one immaculately manicured nail to reveal a math textbook that Derek strongly suspects was written by aliens. She freezes in the second best armchair she’s sharing with Jackson. And then, impossibly, it looks like she's going to cry.  There's a moment of terror in the room, in which everyone exchanges wide-eyed looks, before she reaches out strokes the cover tenderly, and it feels like the whole pack lets out a collective sigh. Good cry, Derek thinks, backing away from the edge of panic, she's trying not to do the good cry.  

 

Well, that was what Laura always called it anyway. Derek glances around and makes Scott for that one, seeing as he looks like he's about to pass out from relief.

 

Erica shrieks with delight when she dives into her gift and pulls forth a lingerie ensemble that Derek feels an overwhelming urge to take outside immediately and burn. He glares at it and sees Mrs. McCall out of the corner of his eye, turn away from him, her shoulders shaking in barely suppressed mirth. He glares even more darkly at the red and black lace monstrosity. He’s fully supported Erica’s right to wear whatever she damn well chooses, and do whomever she damn well chooses, but that doesn’t mean he needs to know explicitly what she’s going to be wearing while she does. He scans the room, and Lydia is the only one who isn't turning some shade of interesting pink, so that gives her away.

 

Isaac goes next and unwraps his gift to find, "Shoes." He says flatly, looking at the box.  Boyd shifts minutely, and brushes a finger across his mouth to hide the hint of a curve threatening at the edge of his lips.

 

Isaac lifts the top off the box to discover a hideously delicate looking glass ornament, in light winter blues and silvers nestled safely inside a mound of tissue paper. Isaac carefully puts the lid on the box once more and curls his body protectively over it.  "Thank you," he whispers to the floor, "thank you."  Boyd maintains an aura of satisfaction, and Erica runs her fingers through Isaac's curls.

 

Erica clears her throat, and Derek glances up after a moment to see Scott's mom come in with a box held carefully in her arms.

 

"This gift is for Scott and has been Mother approved, and I give it to him now with utmost secrecy," she says with dignity then carefully lowers the box in front of Scott and he pulls out - a puppy. It looks like a floppy eared beagle, and Derek can tell by the look on both their faces that it's an instant love connection. "Shiloh," Scott says blissfully, and Derek can't help but reach out to grip the back of Erica's neck soothingly.  

 

She gives him a delighted grin, which he returns with (what he hopes) is a proud one.  

 

“I have been informed,” Mrs. McCall says dryly, “that the whole ‘pack’ here will delightedly pitch in for the care and maintenance of this small furniture chewing terror, so that he is never left in this house alone to gnaw on my furniture, chew on my shoes, or relieve himself all over my carpet.”

 

There is a mingled chorus of ‘yes Mrs. McCall’ from the rest, but Derek just nods seriously.

 

"Jackson," Isaac says, "Just you and then Derek."

 

Jackson gives an imperious nod, and Derek is overcome by the urge to be somewhere, anywhere else. Derek is gratified to see Jackson start to carefully unwrap Derek's pristine wrap job and he intakes (what he hopes is a subtle) deep breath.

 

"It's a picture," Jackson says, "Of strangers," he continues, voice turning haughty. He looks up to glare at Stiles but then looks back down, almost against his will. His eyebrows pull down in confusion and he says, "No, wait-" He reaches up a finger to carefully trace the curve of someone's face in the photo.

 

He looks up and swallows hard, face confused.  "These are my parents, my real parents." Lydia inhales sharply beside him.  "This is what they look like."

 

Jackson stares at the photo, transfixed. “They look so young,” he murmurs, almost too low to hear. Slowly, Derek feels the tension slip out of his body. Jackson doesn't say anything further, and doesn't seem inclined to look up from the picture anytime soon.  Slowly, Lydia raises a hand and rubs her fingers gently up and down the fine hairs on the back of Jackson's neck.  

 

Boyd clears his throat, says, "Derek," and gives him a nod.

 

Derek looks down to the small package (looks like a store gift wrap job) he’s holding in his hand.

 

He hears Stiles' heart beat out in irregularities as he sets his wine glass down and brings his fingers up to methodically tear the paper away in small pieces.  He's unwrapped his presents that way for years, and it never failed to annoy every single person in his family. Except for Peter. Peter’s always appreciated it when large groups of people are annoyed together.

 

“Seriously?” Scott says as Derek shreds the wrapping paper off, piece by tiny little piece.

 

Derek's senses heighten. He gets a heavy feeling in his gut as he continues to unwrap and hears the miniscule sound of Stiles' fingers tightening and clenching down into the fabric of his chosen armchair and the catch of his breath in his chest.

 

Derek pulls the last bits of paper away to reveal a movie.

 

"The Wolf Man," he says flatly.

 

Then it's dead silent but for the innocent sounds of the puppy, squirming around delightedly amidst the discarded wrapping paper on the floor.

 

Derek throws back his head and howls with laughter. Soon everyone's laughing along with him, and trading good-natured insults back and forth with each other. Derek thinks only Stiles is in a position to note the slight hysterical edge to his mirth.

 

Once they've calmed down and Derek has given over his  puppy holding turn to Isaac for the second time in a row, he suggests that they watch the movie. Mrs. McCall leaves for her night shift while Allison is popping in the movie and Jackson casually reveals the presence of a large amount of snacks, both healthy and decidedly not.  

 

"You dick," Scott says fondly, and Derek silently agrees with Erica that Jackson's constipated look at being caught out at do-gooding is the most precious gift of the evening.

 

When the lights are out and the movie is going, Derek slips out, just to put his empty wine glass away, but he finds himself standing next to the counter, looking blankly out the window into darkness instead.

 

He's their Alpha, he's here to keep them alive and keep them together.  He's going to have to resign himself o the impossibility of being anything more.  He'd pushed too hard for too long, made too many stupid mistakes and then mistakenly acknowledged none of them for too long a time again. It's enough that they feel like a family with each other. He doesn't need to be included.  

 

He misses his Mother suddenly and fiercely with a strength that nearly doubles him over, elbows braced on the counter, cradling his head in his hands. She’d never needed to say ‘I’m the Alpha.’ She just was. And then, as he aches with the loss of her, he selfishly misses the weight and comfort of his Father's hand, resting on the back of his head.  His Father, the solid anchor of the pack, one which they’d all revolved around.

 

Derek’s not crying, but it's a near thing.  

 

He needs to get a grip.  He's a big grown-up werewolf, he can handle getting a gag gift for Christmas, he knows logically that Stiles never meant any harm by it. <<Besides he’s made it glaringly clear on every occasion that Stiles has absolutely no reason to give Derek any kind of special thought whatsoever.  

 

He just needs to stop being - being butthurt, or whatever, and congratulate himself on getting Stiles to treat him the way he’s been campaigning for, for weeks.

 

Because if Stiles were to start treating Derek the way he wants Stiles to start treating him, well, that way lies madness.>><<I added in this part because I wasn’t sure it was obvious that Derek has been pining for Stiles, the way that it is revealed further down, let me know if it’s necessary or not pls?>>

 

Distantly Derek registers an elevated heart-rate and the tell-tale signals of distress, rippling in the air at the entrance to the kitchen, but when he looks up, Stiles is already in the bathroom down the hall, slamming the door behind him.  After a few moments, it also becomes apparent that he's throwing up.  

 

"Stiles?" He hears Scott calling worriedly from the living room but Derek is already at the bathroom door, twisting the knob to let himself in.  Stiles continues to heave up the contents of his stomach, and Derek pulls the hand towel off the wrack, wets it with cold water, and draps it carefully over Stiles’ neck as his heaves begin to taper off.  

 

Derek reaches out and rubs a hand soothingly in circles on Stiles' back. "Is it something you ate?" he asks worriedly, "Did you eat too much?"

 

"Dunno," Stiles gasps after a moment, cringing away from Derek's touch. Derek jerks his hand away.

 

There's silence from the living room, and Derek looks up to see the pack crowded around the bathroom door.

 

Derek flushes the toilet after a minute or so more, and gently helps Stiles to his feet.  

 

As Stiles rinses his mouth out at the sink, gulping in air with shuddering breaths, Derek asks Allison if she and Lydia are feeling alright.

 

"I have that dinner later with my Dad, so I wasn't eating anything," Allison wrings her hands worriedly.

 

"I only ate the carrot sticks," Lydia says.

 

"I ate everything," Stiles says, and Derek turns back to him. "Sorry," he says, not meeting Derek's eyes.  

 

Derek lets the Alpha red bleed into his eyes and takes stock of Stiles' body.  He frowns at the elevated stress levels, and reaches out to press the back of his hand against Stiles' forehead.

 

Stiles jerks away.  

 

"Stiles," Derek growls, as patiently as he knows how.

 

Still not meeting Derek's eyes, Stiles steps forward and lets Derek feel his forehead.

 

He gives a yelp of surprise when Derek reaches out to pull his forehead down for Derek to feel with his cheek.

 

"Fever," He grunts, "I don't think the food was bad, I think you're just getting sick.”

 

"I should go home," Stiles says miserably.

 

Derek nods, "I'll take you." He turns to Scott and says, carefully, "If you want to take Allison home so she's not late for her dinner?"  Scott's eyebrows raise up at the delicately worded request and he nods.

 

"We'll clean up here and show ourselves out," Lydia says briskly.  "Scott, bring your puppy to charm Mr. Argent with."

 

Scott splutters and Allison hides a smile, and Derek is pleased to note a wan grin flit across Stiles' face.

 

With the pack’s help, he bundles Stiles up in an overabundance of layers and his new scarf and they trek out to Derek's car, parked across the street. Derek turns up the heat as soon as the car warms up, but it doesn't put a dent in Stiles' small shivers.  He frowns, and pulls out his phone to dial up the Sheriff.

 

"Stilinski," he answers.

 

"Sheriff, it's Derek Hale." Stiles jerks in his seat.

 

"Derek," the Sheriff says sharply, "Is everything alright?"

 

"Everything's fine," Derek says, "Stiles is a little sick with a fever, I'm taking him home."

 

The Sheriff makes an upset sound.  "I'll be off in 30," He says, then asks, "Derek if you wouldn't mind staying with him until I get home?"

 

"I won't leave him alone," Derek promises as he turns onto Stiles' street, and Stiles makes an inarticulate sound in the back of his throat.

 

Derek ends the call and looks at Stiles with concern.  "How are you feeling?"

 

Stiles shakes his head, and then Derek is pulling up into the Stilinski drive, right behind Roscoe, the Great Blue Whale of Beacon Hills.

 

Stiles unlocks the front door and then shakes his head, "Yeah," he says, voice shaking, "I'm gonna be sick again."  He flings off layers as he runs to the bathroom and Derek winces as he hears the toilet lid clunk open and Stiles begin to throw up again.  

 

He closes the front door behind him and busies himself with piling blankets and pillows on the couch for Stiles, and wrestling with the Stilinski DVR to pull up an old recording of a Mets game.  

 

Stiles comes out of the bathroom, and freezes at the sight of his living room, says "Nope," and turns back around to the bathroom and is sick once more, though all he can manage at this point is some dry heaving.

 

Eventually Stiles emerges from the bathroom once more and allows himself to be propped up and nested in blankets and pillows by Derek.  

 

"Do you have any ginger ale?" Derek asks absently, looking towards the kitchen.

 

Stiles shakes his head miserably.

 

"It's ok," Derek says, trying his best to make Stiles feel better, "I can go get some for you later."

 

Stiles groans and doubles over, clutching his stomach.

 

Derek hovers over him, somewhat alarmed.

 

"Stiles -"

 

"Derek, there's something I have to tell you." Stiles looks up and finally meets his gaze.  Derek frowns.

 

"What is it?"

 

"I was the one who gave you the video," He whispers, with barely any emotion in his voice.

 

"Stiles," Derek says then stops, and sits carefully next to him.  "I know."

 

"You know?" Stiles' gaze turns even more horrified, and Derek winces internally.

 

"I recognized my writing when Scott pulled my name," he says.

 

"Oh God," Stiles moans.

 

"Stiles, Stiles, it's ok, really - "

 

"No, no Derek, it's not ok, it is so beyond ok, you should, you should hate me!" Siles' eyes burn into Derek's.  "I hate me," he says in a small voice.  

 

“Stiles,” Derek says patiently, “I’m not upset, it was a really funny gift.”

 

“Everyone else gave and received heartfelt, thoughtful gifts, yourself included, Lydia included, fuck Jackson included, and you got something I spent 3 minutes on Amazon to buy, snickered over for 10 minutes when it came in the mail and then forgot about until it was time to give it to you tonight.”

 

Stiles twists the edge of one of the blankets frustratedly with his hands. “You deserve better than that. You deserved to open a gift that made you feel special and- and loved.” Suddenly he freezes, and a horrified look blanches all the color from his already over-pale face. “You knew it was me that gave you the douchebag gift and you still are taking care of me and worried about whether or not I’m sick and I don’t deserve it -”

 

“Stiles,” Derek cups Stiles face in between his hands and turns him gently until he’s meeting Derek’s eyes.  “Even if I was mad at you I wouldn’t leave you to suffer in the throes of illness like a punishment,” he says wryly.

 

“I’ll make it up to you,” Stiles whispers, “I don’t care how long it takes me I am not going to rest until I get you a Christmas gift so magnificent, that you’ll - you’ll just - you know, in awe -”

 

Derek snorts, “Maybe there should be some resting.”

 

Stiles makes a frustrated sound.  “Why are you being so nice,” he groans.

 

Derek rolls his eyes.  “You wouldn’t leave me alone to wallow in misery if I were sick, so I’m not gonna leave you alone to yours.”

 

Stiles just stares at him, eyes wide, disbelieving.  Derek rolls his eyes and grumps, “Will you just watch your pathetic Mets get creamed.”

 

“Them’s fightin’ words,” Stiles grumbles, but turns to watch, and slowly relaxes.

 

He’s slipped into a light doze by the time the Sheriff has pulled up, and barely twitches as Derek pushes up off the couch, steadying Stiles so he doesn’t fall over as he does.

 

Derek meets the Sheriff outside at his car. “Stiles has thrown up a couple of times, I was going to go get him some ginger ale,” Derek says awkwardly.

 

The Sheriff grins, and says, “Thanks Derek, but I stopped on the way home and got Stiles a few things. If I’d have known I could farm you out for a grocery run, I would have jumped on that.”

 

Derek hesitantly grins back.  

 

“He doing okay?” The Sheriff asks as he shuts his door with his hip, grocery bags clutched in his hands.

 

“Yeah, he fell asleep a little while ago, he’s crashed out on the couch.”

 

“Okay, Derek, and thank you, again for looking after Stiles.”

 

“It was no problem,” Derek says then swallows. “I’ll see you later Sheriff.”

 

Derek is almost to his car before the Sheriff’s voice stops him with, “Does he know?”

 

Derek turns back around, confusion plain on his face.

 

“That you’re in love with him,” he clarifies.

 

Derek gapes at him in horror.

 

“Thought not,” The Sheriff says, with a satisfied look on his face. “I’ll expect to be informed when the two of you start dating, and be updated on when my son is spending time with you,” he says sternly.

 

Derek is an Alpha.  He does not gulp.  Loudly.

 

The Sheriff nods, and turns to walk inside.

 

Derek gets in his car and sits morosely. He’d been so subtle though, hadn’t he?

 

He actively does not think on what information the Sheriff might be in possession of that makes him think that Stiles dating Derek is an inevitability, instead of just laughable.

 

Stiles is, is brilliant and young and whole and Stiles, and Derek is just old and broken, worn and, and just Derek.  

 

His hands are trembling as he starts the car and lifts them up to the wheel.

 

*********************

 

Three days later, on Christmas Day, around 6:30, Stiles shows up at his door.

 

Derek blinks.  “Feeling better?” he asks.

 

“Yup,” Stiles says brightly, “Can I come in?” Predictably, he does not wait for Derek’s answer, just barges right on in.

 

Derek sighs, hopefully not fondly, because he’s been trying to work on that lately.

 

Once Derek has slid the loft door back into place, Stiles turns to face him, clapping his hands together.

 

“So,” he says decisively, “I’ve done it. I have gotten you a completely heartfelt, thought out Christmas gift that will leave you in awe.”

 

Derek raises an eyebrow pointedly at the complete lack of presents Stiles is holding.

 

And then fights the urge to fidget uncomfortably as certain parts of his anatomy respond with interest at Stiles’ answering grin. Which is sort of - predatory.  That’s a look that Derek has never seen before.  What is that look? It’s alarming him and he’s not sure why.  

 

He’s not sure, but he thinks his hands might be trembling again, hanging by his sides. He clenches them to fists, hoping Stiles doesn’t notice.  

 

“Well,” he snarks (trying for normalcy), “Inquiring Alphas are waiting.” He lifts an eyebrow. (Stiles calls it the ‘Alpha bitchbrow’, which is, of course, ridiculous).

 

Stiles smirks. “I have it on good authority that you would not be averse to accepting a kiss from me.”

 

A wheezing noise escapes from Derek.

 

“But of course that’s just crazy,” Stiles continues, “because you’d think I would have noticed at some point that you wanted to kiss me.”

 

“Stiles,” Derek croaks out.

 

The expression on Stiles’ face turns serious, and searching. “So is it true?” He asks, “Do you want that?”

 

Derek has to shut his eyes for a moment against the truth of it all. The stillness of the winter evening, the quick yet steady beating of Stiles’ heart, the depths of his eyes, the curl of his long fingers into fists at his side, just like Derek’s.  

 

Then Derek has to open his eyes and say, helplessly, “Yes.”

 

“Say it,” Stiles says, voice low and throbbing with some emotion Derek can’t identify.

 

Derek closes his eyes again. “Yes, I want to kiss you.”

 

After a moment of silence, punctuated only by the rapid uptick in Stiles’ heartbeat (but only Derek can actually hear that), Stiles says softly, “So you ready for your Christmas present now?”

 

Derek’s eyes fly back open and Stiles takes a step forward, then another step, and another step, and then he’s standing right before Derek, so close they’re almost pressed against each other.  

 

Derek feels a shudder of pure want travel down his body.

 

His eyes are drawn down to Stiles’ lips as he opens his mouth and says roughly, “Merry Christmas, Derek.”

 

Then Stiles’ lips are coming closer and Derek’s eyes are falling closed and he leans forward, conscious thought dropped back somewhere much earlier in their conversation, everything instinct and desire; pure and uncomplicated.

 

And then Stiles’ lips are pressing against his, warm and soft, and Derek’s heart jumps in his chest so violently, he wonders if he might be dying.  

 

It’s Stiles who furthers the kiss, tracing the curve of Derek’s bottom lip with his mouth, but it’s Derek who tilts his head slightly to the side and slots their mouths together.

 

The kiss works a lot like a dream after that, a good dream, soft and sweet, but then Stiles makes a noise that catches in the back of his throat and Derek’s hands travel up to cradle Stiles’ face in between them and the kiss speeds up.

 

Their mouths push and pull at each other’s, Derek sucks Stiles’ bottom lip into his mouth and Stiles swipes his tongue at the corner of Derek’s.

 

Derek releases Stiles’ bottom lip before he can even think about it, opens his mouth wider and Stiles’ tongue is slipping inside, tangling with Derek’s tongue, exploring the cavern of Derek’s mouth.

 

Derek makes some kind of embarrassing noise, a high pitched moan or a breathy whine, or  shit, maybe both and Stiles pulls back and presses their foreheads together, gasps out, “Too fast, sorry sorry, we can go slow.”

 

And Derek can’t, he just can’t, Stiles isn’t a werewolf, he can’t smell Derek’s sudden fear, he can’t sense the terror that suddenly overcame Derek, that feeling of ‘too fast, too much but want more’, and still, somehow he just knows and Derek is at a loss to explain how he feels.

 

All he can do is rub his forehead against Stiles’, squeeze his eyes shut, and say, desperately, brokenly, “I love you. I’ve loved you since, I don’t know, I just looked up one day and I couldn’t breathe until I’d seen you.”

 

“Derek,” Stiles whispers, and runs his fingers through Derek’s hair. He shudders at the feel of them. “I love you too,” he says, voice gentle and longing.

 

Derek opens his eyes and stares into Stiles’, feels like he’s drowning in their rich umber depths.

 

Derek can’t help the desperate questioning look that overtakes his face, but Stiles just nods and says, “I do, I do,” reassuringly.

 

“So you want,” Derek trails off and then tries again, “with me?”

 

“Yes,” Stiles sighs and leans forward, and wraps his arms around Derek. It  takes a moment, but then Derek is hesitantly bringing his arms up to hold Stiles and then they’re just - holding each other.

 

Derek adds, almost as an afterthought, “Merry Christmas, Stiles.”

 

They stay like that, wrapped up in each other, for a long time.  

 

Stiles was right. Derek is in awe.  

 

 


End file.
